A garden in full bruise…

Ylem (poem #30)

We are all deficient.We obsess over documenting ourselves so thatwe don’t forget how much it hurt to get to where we’re at.People talk of sadness as if it’s a sickness,unable to see how critical it is to taste itand treat it as if it’sjust another texturein your mouth.Lately,my favorite timeis the midnight air,lifting ruinous thoughts that the hours brought.I try to feel out the shapes of my faceand touch the curves of my mouthwhere all pessimism lives.All the parts erupted,caressed with the jitteriness of my eight trackfingertips planting seedsinto my now drought-tolerantsilvery gray leaves.